


Honour

by fawatson



Category: Last of the Wine - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phaedo attends Lysis' party for Alexias.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oshun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/gifts).



> **Request:** I would love to read more about Phaedo. I read between the lines how attractive both Alexias and Lysis found him. How about using that as the basis of a story? One or the other of them with Phaedo or both could make a lovely story. I know MR would never have written any of those, so if you are a canon purist I am doomed. I do want the story to retain the tone of the original, however. It wouldn't be casual or lightly done, although it could still be, and even most likely would be, a one time occurrence. Maybe not. Maybe it could be more if it happened after Lysis marries and leaves Alexias alone. Surprise me. There is already at least one beautiful story in this genre. I suppose one could produce a UST plot (would not be my first preference) about some combination of the above, but I would still want to see some emotion, desire and passion. Phaedo is the deal-breaker in this request: he has to be in the story as one of the major protagonists.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.  
>  **Author’s Notes** (a) This story takes place during chapter 11; (b) I know this isn’t quite what you wanted but I hope it pleases to some extent; (c) more fanfic set in this universe can be found at http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com/

He hadn’t been to this sort of party in years. Hesitant, despite the welcome he’d received at the front door (clearly he was expected), Phaedo paused at the archway leading to the dining room. He did know everyone. This wasn’t a family gathering, but one for Lysis’ closest friends, young men his own age, or slightly older or younger, and of course, Sokrates, the one greybeard amongst them. He supposed Lysis’ father had gone out for the evening, so the son could have free reign within the house. Clearly there was considerable trust between them; father had no fear his son would bring shame on his house if he went out for several hours. Phaedo saw the close circle of Sokrates’ students – no Kritias here – and he need fear no rebuff. Reassured, he entered.

He was greeted warmly, a cup of wine was pressed into his hand; and he joined a circle of people discussing the nature of honour.

“But that is not honour,” protested Lysis, in response to Kriton, “not if one does the right thing out of concern for what it does to another person, rather than from one’s own sense of right and wrong.”

“Are you saying then, that we should deem dishonourable the man who fulfils his duties by his family, because he wants them happy, rather than because he knows it to be the right thing?” asked Sokrates.

“I don’t think a man can be right in his actions if he does not consider their effect on others when making his choices,” ventured Alexias.

“Yes but decisions are not made right – or wrong – simply by their consequences,” insisted Lysis.

They were at it – civilised and logical debate, which Phaedo followed with half his mind – even while he found himself distracted more and more by the undercurrents of emotion in the conversation. For once Alexias was holding his own, fiercely arguing with Lysis, not giving in and accepting the older man’s direction as he usually did. Alexias’ passion was showing through; his arguments became less clear, his logic affected. Phaedo had known for some time that Alexias allowed personal feelings to impede his thinking. He had firm beliefs and struggled when they were challenged – though to his credit he never took umbrage when the faults in his arguments were pointed out. Phaedo wondered privately how much of Alexias’ determination to hold to his views was attributable to the difficult relationship he had had with his father before Myron went to Syracuse. He was not arguing his case well, Phaedo thought, yet there was _some_ merit to his view. Could one’s actions be right if they led to wrong consequences? Quietly Phaedo left his chair, refilled his cup, and slipped, unnoticed into the garden, drawn by the still quiet night.

It had been just such a night as this when the ‘honourable’ decision had been taken, years before, in Melos – to send off the latest envoy from Athens, with a flea in his ear. Nikos, his lover, had spoken fiercely about the integrity of the individual city state and the need to resist Athenian aggression. Phaedo remembered how he had sat quietly, saying nothing, eyes shining with enthusiasm at how well Nikos spoke – at how shamed he had felt at his father’s quiet speech about the need to consider the likely outcome of a war with Athens, given the resources at that city’s command.

“Consider the effects on our families if we lose,” his father had pleaded, “our sons dead, our women enslaved.”

Phaedo remembered how uncomfortable and let down he had felt at the time at his father’s words – how proud he had felt when the vote had been taken and the decision made. To his youthful gaze his father had appeared tired and old, and all too willing to compromise. Yet his father had fought hard – had died honourably, notwithstanding his doubts about the wisdom of war. After that night of debate, his father had never spoken openly about his fears, for all that his son had known he still worried about the war’s outcome. And those fears had not prevented him from polishing his armour and sharpening his spear and riding forth to battle, right to the end. Phaedo was thankful that his father had died in that last day of fighting, and had not lived to see his wife and son taken into slavery.

The sudden loud croaking of frogs from the garden pond brought Phaedo back from his memories. He took a deep sip of wine, and looked back into the room where Lysis’ supper party was taking place. The debate was continuing with Sokrates, as usual, sitting quietly letting most of the discussion take place round him. Occasionally, as debate flagged, he would ask a question that sparked further argument. But for the most part, he was content to let his friends take the lead. Quite unlike anyone else in Phaedo’s experience: his father had assumed his son’s agreement, years ago; and his lover had exhorted and argued with the best. As he watched, Phaedo took note of the light touches Lysis gave Alexias. Always discreet and unobtrusive (and certainly nothing that was not appropriate in public), nonetheless, the older man took the opportunity to show his affections toward the younger. Nikos had been somewhat like Lysis in this. Phaedo supposed Alexias must feel somewhat as he had, years go, basking in the warmth of new young love. So much had happened since.

He tried not to remember past, happier times; it was unproductive. But then Lysis said something, Alexias half-turned, smiled; and for once the discipline Phaedo had taught himself – of living in the moment, and not looking back – failed. Memories of Melos flooded back.

“Are you disappointed?” Nikos had asked, after their first time together.

Phaedo remembered how he had half-turned toward his lover – how he had smiled.

“How could I be?” he had replied, before leaning over to kiss Nikos on the lips. “It was everything I expected.”

How little he had known at the time. Indeed, it _had_ been everything he had expected, so little had he experienced before. He had been hesitant and uncertain, but willing, even eager, to explore his lover’s body, and to be guided. He had never questioned how it was Nikos had learned all he knew, given he said he had never had such a relationship before. Now, of course, he knew. Melos had not been without bathhouses like the one Gurgos ran here in Athens.

They had loved often in the months before the war. All had seen it coming; and Phaedo remembered a frenetic quality to their loving. After the fateful public debate about the Athenian ultimatum he had felt estranged from his father and spent as much time as possible with Nikos. It had not been difficult, as they had often ridden together on patrol. At night they had shared their cloaks, making a pallet a few yards away from the rest of the encampment so no one would be disturbed by them. (Nikos had sometimes been a little loud.) If he had known then what he knew now about how Nikos must have learned those erotic skills, would have been so eager to swear he loved him?

A brown striped cat drew him back to the present, rubbing herself against his leg before she dropped a dead frog – clammy and cold – at his feet. Phaedo studied his friends through the open door. He did not see the same awareness in Alexias’ eyes that he knew had been in his own eyes. It was there in Lysis’ face as he looked at his young friend: _he_ wanted. But so far he waited. Lysis had come to the bathhouse to pay for an evening of Phaedo’s company, because _Alexias_ had wanted him to come to this party. And, somewhat pointedly, Lysis had explained he would ensure Phaedo had safe escort back to Gurgos’ place at the end of the evening—making it understood he would not be expected to remain the night. Alexias had expressed his admiration for Lysis, and his trust had been obvious. It appeared it had been well-founded.

Phaedo felt a tight knot of tension ease in his shoulders. He had not been aware of it until it left him. He was amongst friends here – trustworthy friends, honourable friends. Inside the house, the discussion was drawing to a close. Lysis was seating his guests at the table; and the servants began to bring in the food.

Phaedo took the last few sips of wine and lifted his cup in silent oblation to Lysis’ restraint, before he poured the dregs on the ground and went to join his friends.


End file.
